by Karen White
“Heaven on earth,” Kathy answered as she held out her hand to Beau with a friendly smile.
After a reassuring nod from me, Beau allowed himself to be led to the door Kathy had come out of. I called after them, “The red hat—it’s okay if he doesn’t put it down, all right?”
Kathy nodded and gave me the thumbs-up sign as she led Beau through the door.
I turned to Trey. “The hat was Monica’s. He hasn’t let it out of his sight since she died. I’m not a child psychologist, but I think he needs it right now.”
With a brief nod, he led me to a tall doorway near the bottom of the stairs and allowed me to precede him into the room. A beautiful arch framed a banquet seat and window on the left side of the room, a wood-manteled marble fireplace opposite. The tall ceiling was beamed, highlighting the floor-to-ceiling French doors that led into a side garden. Framed paintings lined the walls, and I had to restrain myself from studying each one in detail. But two over the fireplace made me pause. The children were about five or six in their portraits, each with identical sandy-colored hair and blue-green eyes full of mischief and matching half smiles.
“That’s Monica and you, isn’t it?”
Trey nodded, his face expressionless. “Mine was painted live, but Monica’s had to be done from a photograph because she wouldn’t sit still.”
With a soft smile, I said, “Sounds like Monica. And the portrait of you could be Beau.” Recalling the pictures in the foyer, I asked, “The artwork in the foyer—were those Monica’s?”
“Yes. Aimee was always Monica’s biggest fan. Even from the age of five, which is about when those paintings were done. Aimee wanted Monica to get used to having her art displayed.”
I felt the hollowness again. I sat down on a cream-colored sofa that Trey indicated, wondering what he thought of the family resemblance between him and Beau, and wondering, too, if he were always so unreadable. “Where is Mrs. Guidry?”
He sat down on the sofa opposite but didn’t sit back, reminding me of a lion ready to pounce. “She was exhausted after getting up so early, and then meeting Beau and hearing about Monica. I told her to lie down for a short while and that I would go get her when you arrived.”
I looked back at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m here now.”
“I wanted to talk with you alone first. Clear up a few things.” He raised an eyebrow that matched mine. “Don’t worry. I don’t bite.”
I frowned, not really sure I believed him. I’d heard too many of Monica’s stories of how her brother had a penchant for fistfights that got him kicked out of school more than once. And how he’d once dragged a boy to Monica’s doorstep to get him to apologize to her for breaking up with her in a note left in her school locker. I felt my lip twitch at the memory, as I tried to reconcile that boy and protective brother with the stern and angry young lawyer sitting across from me. I couldn’t. But I could understand why that boy from Monica’s memory had changed. Searching for the missing took a toll on the ones doing the searching. I knew that from simply looking in a mirror.
The door opened, and Kathy appeared with a tray filled with a coffeepot, cups, teaspoons, cream, and sugar. I recognized the peculiar nutty smell from the coffee Monica had always made, the same coffee I had once spurned but now found myself craving.
“Thought you might want some coffee,” Kathy said, placing the tray on the elegant low table that sat between the sofas. She straightened, her hands on her hips. “And that boy sure does like his pimento cheese. Let me know if you want the recipe. It was my grandma’s, but recipes are meant for sharing.”
“Thank you,” I said.
It appeared that Kathy wasn’t finished talking, but Trey was looking at her with two raised eyebrows.
“Well, then. I guess I’d better go see about Beau.”
“Thank you, Kathy,” Trey said as he lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.
I cut the rich chicory coffee with cream and sugar before venturing a taste, recognizing the china as an old Haviland Limoges pattern. “Have you called Monica’s lawyer yet?”
“Of course.”
“So you know I’m telling the truth.”
“About some things, yes.” He drained his cup and set it down, the china clinking against the saucer. His fingers drummed on the tops of his legs before he stood. “How did you meet Monica?”
I told him the story I’d told Ray Von, about meeting Monica at the Abe Holt art show. “She’d been in New York for about five years by then and had started to make a name for herself.”
“As Monica Armstrong.” He said the name with a smirk. “I didn’t know she’d changed her name until I spoke with her lawyer this afternoon.”
“I didn’t even know that wasn’t her real name until . . . until after she got sick, and she told me.”
“It made it easier for her to hide,” he said softly.
“Why did she want to?” I held my coffee cup still as I waited for him to answer, the soft ticking of the clock on the mantel the only nod to time passing.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice weary, as if he’d asked and answered that same question many times before, and I could almost believe that he was telling the truth.
“I need you to tell me how she died. Be as blunt as you need to be, and I’ll decide how much to tell my grandmother. This has already been hard on her, and I want to spare her as much as I can.”
I took another sip of coffee, the chicory aroma reminding me of Monica and the first time she’d watched me try it, and I’d wanted to spit it out. “It was her heart. A congenital heart defect she didn’t discover until it was too late. She was on a transplant list. . . .” My voice trailed off as I realized I hadn’t told him what he really wanted to know. “She died peacefully. In her sleep. But not alone. Monica and Beau lived with me the last year, because she couldn’t pay her rent and she was so . . . weak. She needed help with Beau. I had a futon in the living room, and she and Beau had the bedroom. And one day I went in to wake her and . . .” I stopped, unable to continue. “I’m sorry.” For what, I wasn’t sure. Sorry that he’d lost his sister? Sorry that he’d finally found her, but found her too late? Or just sorry that it was me instead of Monica who’d made it back to New Orleans?
Carefully placing my cup on the tray, I said, “About the portrait. You said it was stolen.”
“Yes. In a way it was. By Monica. It hung in the upstairs hallway for years. That’s why when my grandmother saw it at Mayer and Ryan, she recognized it and called me.”
“Are you saying Monica took it when she left?”
“It disappeared when she left, so it was an obvious conclusion. My grandfather, Aimee’s husband, told us she must have taken it for security. As you’re probably aware, it’s very valuable. We’d all assumed that Monica had sold it years ago, although we couldn’t find any trace of it afterward. And now we know why.”
I frowned. “Not really. All we know is that she didn’t sell it. And that she left it to me when she died.” I looked up at Trey. “I figured that Monica left it to me for the same reason you assumed she took it. For security.” I swallowed, deciding to be blunt. He was a lawyer, after all. “I need the money. For Beau.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to press on. “I’ve suddenly found myself unemployed and, frankly, broke. I need to know if the painting is mine to sell or not.”
His blue-green eyes studied me. “What about Beau? Is he negotiable, too?”
I jerked to a stand, my knee knocking the corner of the coffee tray, making everything on it clink with indignation. “I am Beau’s guardian. Not you. And I have to assume there’s a reason Monica did that. I’d hoped I could allow him to get to know Monica’s—his—family, while I tried to figure out what made her run so fast and so far away from you all. And until I figure that out, there’s no way in hell I’m negotiating anything where Beau is concerned. If you want access to him, you’ll have to go through me.”
Outwardly, he appeared unruffled, but I noticed the tic in his jaw as he cle
nched his teeth, something his sister had done, too. “He has family. He has a home. Here, with us. And you”—he made a stabbing gesture in my direction—“left him alone in a hotel room.” His eyes were hard.
His words stung, because I was still beating myself up about that, but I refused to lower my eyes. “Because Monica ran away from you. I had no idea what kind of people you were, and I was doing the best I could to protect Beau. Monica trusted me to be his guardian. Not you. And you all are strangers to him. Do not make this a battle where the only loser is Beau.”
Trey hadn’t moved the whole time I’d been speaking. It unnerved me, but I didn’t sit back down.
Slowly, he stood, too, easily towering over my five feet, six inches. “And the beach house? Have you figured out what you’re going to do with that? I’m half owner, remember.”
I filled my lungs, imagining I could smell the water again, and see the broken oaks and phantom porch steps. “I’m hoping the lot might be worth something, because as I’m sure you know, there’s nothing but sand, dirt, and an oak tree left.”
His words were clipped. “I’ve seen it. More times than I care to think about. And there’s a lot more left than just sand, dirt, and a tree, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
I listened to the way he formed his words, to the peculiar way he rounded his vowels, and it made me miss Monica all over again, reinforcing my anger. “It’s been five years since Katrina, but nothing’s been rebuilt on the lot. Did you think she wasn’t coming back so it didn’t matter if you rebuilt or not?”
The tic continued in Trey’s jaw, and for a moment I didn’t think he was going to answer, but I refused to lower my gaze. I’d grown accustomed over the years to asking difficult questions of people in authority. It was easy to do when you didn’t have anything to lose.
“I was waiting for her to come back.” He paused. “So we could rebuild together. It didn’t seem right doing it without her.”
My heart tightened a bit in my chest, understanding exactly what he meant, understanding that his reluctance to rebuild without his sister had everything to do with the same reason I never studied clouds anymore.
I cleared my throat. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Monica knew that the house was gone. I could never decide whether it was because she was an optimist or preferred to live in a fantasyland. We all saw the news coverage of the hurricane. Most of it was focused here, on New Orleans, but we noticed the Gulf Coast stories because of Biloxi and the house there. I guess we both assumed that since River Song was so old and had withstood other storms, it would have survived Katrina.”
Trey crossed his arms over his chest, as if holding something in. “I’d go for the fantasyland. She held herself and others to impossible standards. Most of us couldn’t live up to them.”
As if anticipating my next question, he abruptly changed the subject. “I’d like to buy out your half of the lot. And because I think Monica would want me to, I’ll give you more than fair market value. As you can imagine, a lot with a house on it would be more valuable, but I’m aware of your situation and that you don’t have time to wait for a house to be rebuilt.”
I stared back at him, but his eyes were inscrutable. I thought of the desolation I’d seen on the coast, all the empty lots, the thinned trees, and tried to imagine rebuilding a house on a beach that had already betrayed it once. It would take an arrogance and a blind faith that I was pretty sure I didn’t possess. Even the thought of all that still needed to be done exhausted me. And Trey was offering me a way out.
“You want to buy out my interest in the Biloxi house. At more than market value.”
“Yes.”
I looked away, ashamed at how much I wanted to say yes. But something held me back. Maybe it was the simple knowledge that Monica had loved the house and had wanted to one day bring her children there. Or maybe it was because the image of the white house on the beach had been a symbol of future happiness for both of us. Of days in the sun where the pressures of making ends meet, and sickness, and the endless searching would no longer exist.
Trey spoke. “Take a few days to think about it, but I think you’ll realize it’s your best option right now.” He turned and walked toward the window, pulling aside a curtain to look out. “Beau’s father—is he a part of the picture?”
I looked down, noticing a scuff on my sensible black pumps, the ones I’d bought for a job I no longer had. I shook my head. “He was a . . . temporary boyfriend.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “She didn’t know his last name. By the time she realized she was pregnant, he was long gone. But she wanted the baby—badly, even though her doctor advised her against it.”
“Because of her heart?”
I nodded, remembering.
He continued studying the street outside the window, but I could tell that his posture was a studied nonchalance, that his every word was planned, and that I needed to be very, very careful.
He continued. “I’m curious about something. Do you know the identity of the woman in the portrait?”
A cold pop of air shot down my spine as I shook my head. “No. My great-grandfather painted lots of portraits for private homes, many of them never seen in public. Looks like mid nineteen fifties, from the style of the hair and dress, but that’s all I know.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
He turned to face me, his expression almost smug. “It’s a portrait of my great-grandmother, Caroline Guidry. And it was painted by your great-grandfather, Abe Holt, in 1956. Odd coincidence, isn’t it?”
The sound of rushing air seemed to envelop me as I stood facing Monica’s brother, not comprehending what he was telling me. When I was small, Chelsea and I would stick our heads out of the open car windows and try to have a conversation with the wind whipping at our faces and filling our mouths. I felt that way now, unable to speak or breathe, suffocating by simply opening my lips. I sat down heavily on the sofa, trying to form words that would ask the right question. “I had no idea. . . .”
The door opened and Kathy Wolf walked in. “Beau’s on his second helping of ice cream. I hope that’s okay. He did eat carrot sticks with his sandwich, if that makes you feel any better. He just loves the praline chunks, and it’s like he’s never had them before.”
I offered a weak smile. “Because he hasn’t. Thank you, Kathy.” My own stomach grumbled as I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, and knew, too, that my stomach couldn’t handle food right now anyway.
Kathy glanced at Trey. “Miss Aimee’s arthritis is bothering her too much to come down, but she wants to speak with Julie.”
Trey moved from the window. “I can take her right up.”
Kathy shook her head. “No. She wants to see Julie alone. She suggested you spend time with Beau while they chat. She said it could be a while.”
It looked for a moment like he would protest, but then he nodded. “Fine. I’ll show Julie where to go and I’ll meet you in the kitchen with Beau.”
Kathy flashed a smile at both of us, then left, her sneakers silent on the hardwood floors.
“This way,” Trey said, indicating the doorway. I stood, my legs feeling as if they belonged to somebody else, and headed out into the foyer. I glanced toward the kitchen door, wanting to reassure myself that Beau was all right.
“He’s fine with Kathy,” Trey said, as if reading my mind. “She’s a registered nurse and can handle any emergency.”
I nodded, reassured. “Just let him know that I’m upstairs, that I haven’t left. He gets anxious sometimes.”
Trey looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead pointed to the grand staircase. “Go up one flight of stairs and take a right. It will be the second door on the left. Just knock first and let her know you’re there.”
My nervousness made me giddy. “You’re not afraid I’ll steal the family silver?”
His lip twitched but he didn’t smile. “It’s insured.”
I turned my back and began climbing the stairs, aware that
he hadn’t moved.
“How did you lose your job?”
I turned halfway and shrugged. “Beau needed me. I couldn’t leave him with a babysitter after what he’d gone through. Unfortunately, my boss didn’t agree.” I didn’t want to see his doubt or disdain, so I turned around and continued to climb until I reached the landing and the balcony that overlooked the foyer, a large stained-glass window covering most of the outside wall.
“Thank you,” he said to my back.
My steps slowed.
“For what you did for Beau. But it’s not going to change anything. My offer to buy out your share of the house still stands. You and I both know that you don’t belong here. We’re grateful that you’ve brought Beau back to his family, but he’s not yours and he never will be.”
Heat flooded my face as my throat closed and my eyes stung, and for a horrifying moment I thought I might cry. But I concentrated on taking each step, keeping my back straight and my chin up, and continued to the top without looking back once.
The door to Aimee Guidry’s bedroom was slightly open. I tapped gently, then entered into a soft white room that glowed from the light of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined two walls of the room. An arched alcove to the left of the door held the ornate rice poster bed and a small bedside table and armchair. Aimee Guidry, wearing the skirt and blouse she’d had on earlier but without her jacket, sat in her stockinged feet on top of the bedclothes, propped against large pillows, small reading glasses perched on her nose. Next to her on the bed sat a large wooden box with a hinged top, its lid gaping open like a mouth.
The older woman smiled as I approached the bed. “Please sit down,” she said, indicating the overstuffed armchair, upholstered in a yellow-and-white toile fabric. Everything in the room was exquisite—from the fine antique furniture to the hand-painted walls and the elaborate ceiling medallion. Just like the woman reclining in the bed, it was beautiful, and comfortable, and elegant—all the things I would have wished for in my own bedroom had I ever thought about it—had I ever wanted anything as permanent as a house with my own bedroom.
